The American - A Sherlock Holmes Story
by AdieBishop
Summary: My first Sherlock story. She arrives at his doorstep in the middle of the night, in the rain, battered and bruised. What's a brilliant detective to do?


The American – A Sherlock Holmes Story

It was late. The rain poured down outside, thunder wailed with occasional lightning strikes; Sherlock Holmes was enjoying a quiet evening at home in front of his fireplace, nestled in with a good book and fine drink. A quiet evening, of course, until a pounding arose at his door. Surely not a client, not at this hour. He sat momentarily, closed his book, sipped his drink, waited for another knock, perhaps it was a fluke. Another knock, so he stood up and tied his robe, and then walked to the front door.

When he opened it, he saw her there, a ball of a girl on his front steps, soaked to the bone, blood all over her, her arms held upward, fingers grasping for him. He knelt down, took her face in his hands and looked at her. Torn clothes, obvious victim of an attack. Soaked, worn shoes, out in the deluge for hours. No one to help her. But why?

He helped her up, brought her inside, immediately grabbed a throw from the back of the sofa, sat her down and wrapped it around her. He said nothing, only picked up his phone and dialed.

"John, it's me. I need your help straight away."

Dr. John Watson patched her up as best he could; she was reluctant to stay or even get cleaned up, but after a hot cup of tea, she agreed that it would be best for her to shower and rest. Sherlock lent her an oversized shirt while he laundered her clothes. After she was asleep, Sherlock and John sat in the living room, pondered over the girl and her circumstances. She hadn't yet given her name, but they knew from her accent that she was American.

"Why do Americans come to England?"

"Tourism."

"Work abroad."

"Romantic relationship."

They talked for over an hour before John left fresh medical supplies for when the woman woke; it was very late and he had to get home to Mary and the baby.

Sherlock sat up most of the night, perplexed. Who would attack such an attractive woman, he wondered? A pick pocket? A disgruntled boss? An angry lover, perhaps?

He walked down the hall and opened his bedroom door ever so Poe-slowly, and looked in on her. She was fast asleep, fresh bruises and cuts marring her lovely face; he vowed then and there to find out who'd done this to her, and why.

Sade played throughout the kitchen as Sherlock whipped up a lavish breakfast. He knocked on his bedroom door but there was no answer, so he entered, carrying a serving tray full of food, tea, and juice. He placed the tray on the nightstand and then gently nudged the woman, who awoke with a start, her arms going to her face instinctively; this woman had been beaten before.

"Well, I hope you're hungry. There's a bit of everything here."

The woman stared at him as he poured a cup of tea. He looked at her. "You don't have to be afraid. You're safe here." He extended his hand, but she hesitated in taking it.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Lola Barret," she replied, sipping the tea.

"May I ask what happened to you last night? You were in quite a shape."

The woman set further up in the bed, placed the tea cup on its saucer. She drew her knees to her chest; a defensive mechanism.

"How did you come about here? In England, I mean?"

"To see the sights. I was to take a guided tour but got lost in the airport and nearly never got a cab, so I was late getting there. I visited a few museums later, and then was going to find a hotel. I hailed a cab, but the driver refused to take me to a hotel." She shook her head, closed her eyes. "He drove to an alleyway and propositioned me. When I said no, that I wanted to leave, he started to beat me."

Sherlock grimaced. "Do you remember the name of the cab company?"

"No."

"Could you recognize the man, were you to see him again?"

"Yes."

"Right, then."

Sherlock stood up, placed the serving tray on her lap, and turned to leave.

"Your clothes are clean and dry, should you wish to put them back on; however, if I must say so, my shirt looks much better on you than it does me."

The woman managed a small smile, and then Sherlock left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock and Watson split up, in hopes of finding the cabbie that attacked Lola. The one question that remained was why. Always blunt, Sherlock asked each driver flat out if they knew anything about an American woman who'd been attacked the night before. Needless to say, he got nowhere, nor did Watson, so they began checking individual cab companies. They learned that one cabbie in particular had quit that morning, and they decided to pay him a visit.

Peter Malone was found working for a laundry delivery service. He swore that he had nothing to do with Lola's injuries, but something about the man made Sherlock's skin crawl. He pictured him battering (and doing God knows what else to) women; there were tons of dark alleyways. For all they knew, he was a serial rapist. Either way, Sherlock didn't like him, more so when the man vehemently denied any involvement in the attack. When asked why he quit working as a cab driver, he explained that he got paid more working for the laundry service.

With no new information as of yet, Sherlock and Watson went back to the drawing board: the cab companies. They were provided with the last cab driven by Peter Malone, and searched it for evidence.

"Sherlock?"

"What it is man, can't you see that I'm busy investigating a probable crime scene?"

"Sherlock, you need to see this."

He let out a sigh and knelt down next to Watson, and found what he was looking for: blood.

They took samples for lab work, but they already knew whose blood it was. He paid Peter Malone another visit, confronted him with the blood evidence, and then the man caved. He wrung his hands, he scratched his head, he sighed; he was nervous.

"Right, she was on the corner. Gorgeous girl…don't get too many of them round here. Most are old people, grumps in a rush. I asked her on a date, and she refused. Granted, I kept pestering her, figuring she'd give in and say yes, but she got upset."

"What did you do to her after she declined your offer for a date, when she was upset? In the middle of a darkened alleyway, no less?"

"I lost my temper and called her an American whore. She slapped me in the face, and I lost it. I think I beat her badly…didn't I?"

Sherlock held his breath; it was all he could do from punching the man in the face. Noticing his friend's expression, Watson spoke.

"You'll be arrested for assault and battery." He stood up, as did Sherlock. Watson grabbed their coats, and when his back was turned, Sherlock punched Peter Malone in the face.

Watson turned and sighed, handed Sherlock his coat. "Couldn't help it, could you?"

Sherlock put his coat on. "I don't approve of men hitting women. It simply shows cowardice."

"Aye, what about women who hit men?"

"No one should hit anyone, if at all possible; although in this case, he had it coming, the bastard."

Sherlock went out the door and Watson followed.

When they arrived home, Sherlock and Watson found Lola trying to find a hotel. Watson changed her bandages, made small talk. They talked about America, about England, about the weather; idle chit-chat, as Sherlock paced the floor.

"There's no need for you to get a hotel. You are more than welcome to stay here, if you like."

"I wouldn't want to impose."

"Not a jot. It would be my pleasure."

"Okay. Thank you, both of you, so very much. I didn't think anyone would help me."

"You were wrong there, love."

About the time that Watson was leaving and Sherlock opened his violin case, Ms. Hudson returned, bagsful of clothing and necessities for Lola. Lola thanked the elderly woman, felt like a child at Christmastime. She went to try the clothes on, and when she returned wearing a yellow sundress, Sherlock stopped playing his violin, put it away altogether.

"Ms. Hudson has impeccable taste. You look…very…well."

Ms. Hudson clapped her hands together and smiled, and then retreated to the kitchen to put on tea and biscuits.

"Do you like to ski, Ms. Barret?

"Please, call me Lola."

"Do you like to ski, Lola?"

"I'm not very good at it."

"Well, I happen to be a very good teacher, should you like to accompany me."

"Okay."

"Make sure to keep your knees bent," Sherlock explained as he fastened the skis onto Lola's feet. She nodded, but was sure she'd wipe out at some point. Sherlock took off like a pro and made it to the bottom of the slope in a matter of minutes. Lola exhaled deeply then pushed off, speeding down the slope, and forgetting how to stop properly, she plowed right into Sherlock, knocking the both of them down. He made sure she was alright and then burst into laughter, as did Lola.

"Perhaps we should find another extracurricular activity for you."

She laughed, caught her breath. "Yes, I think so."

They headed back into the lodge to change clothes and get something hot to drink. Sherlock sat in front of a roaring fireplace when his phone rang. Watson. The blood did match Lola's, and Peter Malone had already been arrested. He relayed the news to Lola, who was overjoyed. She hugged Sherlock, and he held on longer than he should have. When the embrace was over, Sherlock couldn't help but to kiss her, but immediately apologized.

"It's alright. I don't mind."

"But I do."

Lola frowned. "So I'm not kissable?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Of course not. You are very kissable. I just feel that it was unwarranted; I don't know why I did it."

"I'm glad you did," Lola replied, moving closer to him. "As a matter of fact, it would be very nice if you'd do it again."

Sherlock stared at her, and then kissed her again, this time passionately, his hands instinctively around her waist, her hands in his hair, their bodies pressed against one another.

She took her top off, began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt as he continued to kiss her. Something about her was irresistible to him, and for once, he didn't question why; this moment, these kisses, this lovemaking…this high functioning sociopath forgot everything, if only for a while.


End file.
